


Mix and Matches

by FictionalKnight (Northern_Star)



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Star/pseuds/FictionalKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has amnesia and believes he is actually Matches Malone. What else could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mix and Matches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WFGE prompt F31: _Matches Malone with amnesia, identity porn ensues when Superman goes looking for Bruce._
> 
> Also, this assumes a few of the events from Mithen's series [Game, Set, and Matches](http://jij.livejournal.com/277652.html) as canon. (The first three mettings, actually - before it goes off in a different direction...)

_Gotham City, Tuesday morning, 1:36 AM_

For weeks, Bruce Wayne - posing as Matches Malone - had been trying to infiltrate a new crime family that had shown up in Gotham, but with very limited success. Tonight, however, being at the right place at the right time, he'd managed to land himself a one-on-one "interview" with one of the heads of the family.

Everything was going perfectly according to plan.

Until the moment he walked out of the seedy watering hole where he'd spent most of the evening...

He'd barely taken a few steps away from the door when he was struck by a runaway car, his body thrown against a brick wall upon impact. He slid limply to the ground, tinted glasses hanging crookedly on his nose, a trickle of blood running from a gash on the side of his head down a stubly cheek.

Regaining consciousness, Malone squinted against the headlights of a taxicab parked just a few paces away before straightening his glasses. He rubbed at the side of his head, wincing in pain, and felt something warm and sticky under his fingers; upon quick inspection, it turned out to be blood.

"You okay, buddy?" asked a burly, middle-aged man with a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"Fine," Malone said, pulling himself to his feet. When the burly man attempted to help him stand, Malone shook him off brusquely. "I said I'm fine," he shot between his teeth.

"All right, all right," the man replied, hands up in surrender. "Don't have a cow. I was just tryin' to be neighborly."

"I told you, I'm _fine_ ," Malone insisted.

"You don't look so fine," the man replied, shaking his head.

Malone made a clicking noise with his tongue, and the man walked back to his cab, shrugging. But when Malone attempted to walk away, he howled at the sharp, almost excruciating sear of pain that shot up from his left ankle.

The burly man stopped, looked over his shoulder and said, "Ya know, the ER isn't too far... I can take you."

"I ain't going to no stickin' ER!" Malone complained immediately. He took another step, groaned loudly and gave up. "Ah dammit! Yeah, I could use a ride. My place is a couple blocks away," he said, his voice made hoarse by the pain.

The other man threw his cigarette on the pavement and crushed it under his foot. He walked over to Malone and helped him get all the way to the car, rolling his eyes at the thug's complaints that he wasn't a lady and he didn't need anyone's help to walk.

Sitting at the back of the car, Malone managed to spit out an address, though with great difficulty. His head was swimming from the pain in his leg and the splitting headache that had started to build behind his eyes. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes for a moment as the cab drove away.

The next thing Malone knew, he was being shaken awake by the taxi driver.

"Hey, buddy, wake up," the man was saying. "We're here."

Malone slid his fingers under his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "How much?" he asked dryly.

"Never mind," the cab driver replied. "It's on me. You... take care of yourself, okay?"

"Thanks," said Malone, and he slid out of the car, gritting his teeth the moment he tried to put any weight on his left foot.

The cab disappeared into the night and Malone hobbled to the front door of the hotel he'd been staying at. It took him several long minutes to make it all the way to his second-floor room, where he dropped heavily on the bed and passed out even before his head hit the pillow.

=:=:=:=

_Metropolis, Tuesday afternoon, 2:14 PM_

Clark Kent was busy typing the last few paragraphs of an article when he heard the ultrasonic chirping from the small Justice League communication device that was concealed inside the frames of his glasses.

Frowning, he picked up his phone's receiver, using it as a decoy, then as he lifted it up to his ear, gently tapped the hidden communicator to answer the call.

"It's O.," came a woman's voice at the other end. "When's the last time you heard from B.?"

"Is something wrong?" Clark asked, his frown deepening.

"He hasn't checked in since yesterday afternoon," Oracle explained. She sounded unusually alarmed. "No one's seen him, and he's not answering when I try to page him."

"That's not like him at all," Clark replied, the phone's receiver wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he finished typing his article as quickly as he could. "I'll see if I can't find a way to locate him. Anything you can tell me that might help?"

"Last time he checked in, he said something about following a lead on the new mafia family that settled into town recently," Oracle told him. "But he didn't give me any specifics."

"Of course he didn't," Clark said, rolling his eyes. He grabbed his mouse and hit the button to send his completed article to his editor, then said, "I'm all done here. I'll see what I can do to help."

"Thanks," Oracle said, relief obvious in her voice. "Keep me in the loop, will you?"

"You know I will," Clark said. Then he tapped the small device hidden in the frames of his glasses again, cutting off the communications, and he hung up the phone's receiver which had now gone from emitting a gentle dial tone to the loud, almost angry off-hook tone.

Grimacing, he rubbed at his hypersensitive ear, then stood from his chair and walked out of the newsroom, using the stairs to go up to the roof of the Daily Planet building. Once there, he looked around to make sure he was alone, then in the blink of an eye changed into Superman's red and blue spandex outfit before flying off in the direction of Gotham City.

=:=:=:=

_Gotham City, Tuesday evening, 5:48 PM_

When Matches Malone opened his eyes, he realized that he was lying face down on his bed, over the sheets and the bedspread; he was fully clothed, and apparently suffering from a nasty hangover.

He rubbed at the back of his head and groaned when he touched a spot over his ear that was sticky and sore. Looking at his fingers he noticed some blood there - some of it brown and dried, but some of it obviously from the injury to his head that he'd just discovered.

"What the hell?" he mumbled under his breath, getting up from his bed, now fully awake.

The moment he set his left foot on the floor, he let out a string of curses at the sudden jolt of pain that shot up his leg. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently massaged his ankle. It was a bit swollen, but nothing that some ice couldn't fix.

He had bigger problems anyway, starting with the fact that he couldn't remember how he'd been injured, or how he'd managed to get back to his hotel room at all.

The last thing he remembered was having been at The Dark Barrel, downing shots of Whiskey, and then...

...then he'd woken up lying face down on his bed.

A quick glance at the alarm clock by the side of the bed told him that it was just about dinner time. He'd lost nearly sixteen hours. Probably less, but there was no way for him to know how long he'd been sleeping.

Frustrated, Malone tried to force himself to remember, but all he could come up with was the faint memory of a cab ride. Even drunk beyond the point of reason, Malone couldn't remember a time ever before when he'd blacked out and forgotten a night's worth of events.

Cursing under his breath, he limped out of into the hall and to the ice dispenser, gathering as much as he could in a small plastic bucket, then limped back to room slowly.

Sitting on his bed, some ice wrapped in a towel and carefully balanced on his ankle, Malone looked over the notes he kept on the various crime organizations that he worked with. Especially the newest _family_ that had shown up in Gotham.

On one of the pages in his notebook he had drawn an org chart with the names of everyone he knew had ties to this new organization, and where they fit into the group. Last night, he'd gotten the last few names he was missing for his chart. Picking up a pencil, he filled in the remaining spots at the top of his pyramid, adding lines here and there to properly link the people between themselves and between the other groups he knew.

Satisfied, he closed the notebook and threw it further away on the bed, on top of a pile of newspapers and magazines. A small piece of paper fell out from between the pages and landed on his thigh. Malone picked it up. It was a torn piece of carton from a matchbook he'd picked up at Carmichael's Pub, right next door. On the reverse side, penciled in neat block letters, were the initials C.K. with a date and a time; Thursday, 8 PM.

Malone smiled at the memory of their very memorable last encounter.

Every now and again, he would give the reporter inside information on Gotham's underworld - a deal they'd made, in exchange for other considerations. The type of considerations that most guys Malone knew generally got from street girls, but that he preferred getting from men - from that man in particular. That man exclusively, if he was being honest.

Licking his lips, Malone wondered just how considerate Clark Kent might be in exchange for the juicy little nugget of information that he'd been able to gather last night. Probably very much so, he thought, reaching for the phone with a wicked grin on his lips.

He dialed the reporter's cell phone number and waited. One ring, two, a third one, and then the answering system picked up the call.

"Sorry I can't take your call right now," the reporter's cheerful voice announced, "Please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." An electronic trill immediately followed.

"I may have something for you," Malone said without bothering with introductions, "Meet me at -" he took a quick glance over to the alarm clock "- eight? Yeah, eight. The usual place." He hung up right away.

Hopefully, he thought, Kent would get the message soon. There was more than enough time left between now and eight to make it from Metropolis to Gotham on the ferry. There was probably enough time left to make a round trip, Malone knew, so he wasn't worried. Kent would make it.

And if not, well... leaving this hotel room to get some food and a few drinks would be welcome anyway.

Malone stood up, testing the effects of the ice on his ankle. It wasn't completely better yet, but it seemed well enough to walk on. He padded cautiously over to his bathroom where he cleaned the wound on the side of his head, then took a long, hot shower.

=:=:=:=

_Metropolis, Tuesday night, 7:41 PM_

Superman landed on the balcony that led into Clark Kent's apartment, a worried frown creasing his brow. He'd spent hours looking for Batman, everywhere he could think of - in all the dark alleys and the hiding places he knew. He'd even looked through the sewers, and had scanned as many abandoned warehouses along Gotham River that he'd spotted. There wasn't a sign of Batman - or Bruce Wayne - anywhere at all.

Changing into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Clark walked through his living room and slumped heavily on the couch. He had no idea where else to look for his friend. As fast and efficient as Superman could be - and as gifted as he was - he didn't know Gotham nearly as well as Batman or Robin did, and he was certain there were places where he hadn't thought to look. He'd done the best he could, though his best seemed like it just wasn't enough.

Reluctantly, he'd told Oracle that he was heading back to Metropolis. There were things there that needed his attention. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to look around Metropolis as well. After all, Bruce did own a penthouse there, and Batman had at least one satellite Batcave that Clark knew of in this city.

Perhaps limiting the search to Gotham City hadn't been the right idea anyway...

With a sigh, Clark reached for the cell phone he'd left sitting next to the lamp on one of the side-tables. He flipped it open and noticed the little symbol indicating there was a message waiting for him in his voice mail. He pressed and held the star button, then waited for his answering system's greeting message. There was one message, the automated voice told him.

A couple more button presses and Clark all but gasped when he heard the first words of the recorded message, instantly recognizing the nasal Jersey accent in the speaker's voice.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Clark complained out loud to no one at all. "I've been looking for every other version of you but the right one."

Glancing quickly at his watch he saw that there was still time for him to make the appointment.

He tapped his small Justice League communicator device, opening a secure channel to Oracle.

"Any news?" she asked, immediately picking up the call.

"Sort of," Clark said. "He left me a message a few hours ago. Looks like he's been underground posing as Malone..."

"Ah." There was a short pause, then Oracle asked, "Did he sound all right? Because it's not like him to go completely out of contact for extended periods of time..."

"I know," Clark replied, just as puzzled as she was. "He asked me to meet him. I should go. I'll make sure I give him a proper chiding."

There was a small burst of laughter on the other end. "Good luck with that," Oracle said. "And thanks, S., I appreciate your help."

"Any time," he told her, before cutting the communication.

As much as he tried, Clark couldn't make sense of the fact that Bruce had contacted no one but him, and as Matches Malone, of all people. If Bruce had been in trouble, he wouldn't have called Clark to ask that they meet at the usual place. He would have used some sort of code speak clue him in on what was going on.

This... Well, this made no sense to Clark at all.

Of course, Batman would never make any sense to him. He probably liked that Clark couldn't figure him out, in fact.

Shrugging, Clark went off to his bedroom in search of appropriate clothing to meet with Matches. If Bruce was in trouble, Clark would know when he got there.

=:=:=:=

_Gotham City, Tuesday night, 7:58 PM_

Malone had been sitting at his usual spot near the bar for a short while, slowly sipping a pint of Skullsplitter beer and looking up every once and again to see if anyone he knew had walked in through the pub's front door.

The bartender placed a fresh bowl of pretzels right by Malone's glass. "Food should be out soon," he said, leaning somewhat over the bar. "Sorry 'bout that. New cook..."

"S'okay," Malone said, and he drew a long sip of beer from his glass.

When he set the glass on the bar again, he saw someone walking up to him. Right on time, he thought, smiling to himself.

"Well hey there, stranger," Malone greeted the newcomer and he tapped the bar stool next to him in invitation.

Clark sat then leaned in closer to his friend. "We were worried about you," he whispered to his ear before pulling back, looking at him with a concerned expression.

Malone frowned behind his tinted glasses. "Me?" he asked. "What for?"

Clark looked around the pub quickly, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you all right?" he finally asked.

"Of course I'm all right," Malone chuckled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Clark gave him a puzzled look and seemed like he was going to say something, but then had changed his mind at the last moment, simply staring at Malone with his mouth hanging slightly open.

The bar keeper slid a plate of haggis and chips in front of Malone, then looking at Clark asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"Cup of coffee," Clark replied, before turning his attention back to Malone. "You said you might have something for me?" he asked him, apparently giving up his concerned line of questioning.

"Yep," said Malone, chewing on a bite of haggis. "Got a few things I thought you'd be interested in. Info. Something else, too."

Clark gave him a quizzical look. "Something else?" he asked, as he poured a half dozen packets of sugar simultaneously into his cup of coffee.

Malone dropped a hand on Clark's knee, a mischievous smile spreading across his lips. "Well yeah," he said, slowly running his hand upwards along Clark's thigh.

Nearly jumping out of his seat, Clark looked at him, eyes wide. "But-- Last time, you said--?" he stammered helplessly. "I suppose I might have misunderstood, but--"

"What's there to misunderstand?" Malone asked, leaning in closer. "I give you info, you give me something in return." He ran his hand just a little higher up Clark's thigh, fingers almost brushing against his crotch "Isn't that how it always works?"

"I-- uh... Yes," Clark replied, swallowing nervously. "But I thought--?"

"You think too much, sweet cheeks," Malone whispered to his ear, leaning in even closer; close enough that Clark could feel the warmth of his breath and the stubble on his cheek. "So, what do you say? I give you info, you give me -" he pulled away and licked his lips slowly "- you give me a good time. Deal?"

"Yes," Clark said, eyes half-lidded, his breathing quick and shallow. "We have a deal."

"Good," Malone replied, squeezing Clark's thigh, before removing his hand and picking up his utensils again. "I have a few names to give you," he said before sticking another piece of haggis in his mouth. "Top of the pyramid."

"Top of--?" Clark shook his head sharply as if to get his thoughts back in order, but not quite looking like he was getting there.

"Mmm." Malone wiped at his mouth with a napkin and smirked. "Didn't I tell you I had something _big_ for you?"

"I hope so," came Clark's whispered reply. He reached for his cup of coffee with a shaky hand. "I'll take everything you want to give me," he said, licking his lips before he pressed them against the rim of the coffee cup.

Malone laughed out loud. "Business first," he told the reporter.

"Yes, business, of course," Clark replied, a little absently, and he took another sip of his coffee.

"Don't you wanna take any notes?" Malone asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, oh, right!" Setting down the cup of coffee, Clark reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a notepad and a pencil that had been chewed on quite a bit. He looked at Malone expectantly, pencil at the ready on a blank page of the pad.

Malone scratched at the side of his mouth with the end of his fork, frowning as if to remember, and then began giving the reporter some names. Pointing at invisible dots in the empty space in front of him, he named every top member of the organization, then connected these imaginary dots, giving out as much information as he could to justify the links he was making.

When he got done, he planted his fork into the last piece of haggis in his plate, bringing it immediately to his mouth, smiling with an air of great satisfaction. "I expect the reward to be of equal value to the information," he said a moment later.

"Of course," Clark replied, nodding slowly.

Letting his fork drop noisily onto the empty plate, Malone turned to face Clark squarely, an eyebrow raised. "And this was a nice -" he leaned a little closer "- big -" he leaned in closer again "- juicy -" and closer yet, enough for Clark to feel his breath on his lips "- piece of information, wasn't it?"

Clark licked his bottom lip slowly. "Yes."

Malone turned his head just enough for the tip of his nose to brush against Clark's. "Come on," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "Time for dessert, and you're it."

"Yes," Clark breathed, eyes half rolling back into their orbits.

When Malone stood up, Clark did the same, and when Malone turned in the direction of the restrooms, Clark followed closely.

From behind the bar, the bartender shouted, "Oh no, you don't! Get back here, you two!" When it seemed like they were ignoring him, he went around the bar and stepped right in their path. "Malone!" he spat, poking him in the chest with a finger. "I'm warning you for the last time! My restrooms aren't there for you to fuck each other's brains out in. Get yourselves a room. Elsewhere!"

Malone rolled his eyes. "Fine," he shot back. He turned to Clark, grabbed the lapel of his jacket and tugged it. "Let's blow this joint," he said, before reaching into a pocket to grab a handful of crumpled bills and throwing them on the bar carelessly. He walked out of the pub with Clark on his heels.

"Where are we going?" Clark asked as they stepped outside and headed down the sidewalk to the east.

"Right here," Malone replied, pointing to the front door of his hotel. "I have a room on the second floor."

"Oh."

Clark looked up at the neon sign on the side of the building. "Okay," he said absently, following Malone inside the hotel lobby.

They were up in the room before Clark knew it, and then the door closed noisily behind them. The room was small, and the bed was buried under newspaper sections, magazines, and pages ripped out of a notebook. Clark looked around not knowing exactly what to do with himself.

Deciding that he'd waited long enough for what he sought from Clark, Malone pinned him against the wall, right by the door, his hands making quick work of removing the reporter's tie. "You're overdressed," he explained, throwing the tie on the dresser.

"If you say so," Clark replied distractedly, his eyes fixed on the bed, just a few paces away.

Frowning, Malone stepped back and snapped his fingers in front of Clark's face. "Is it too much to ask for your attention, here, stud?" he complained.

Clark blinked at him owlishly. "Oh, it's, uh-- I-- we--" he stammered, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red.

"Well...?"

"We've never--" Clark started, then he looked down and in a small voice finally admitted, "We've never been _in bed_ together before."

"That a problem for you?" Malone almost snapped. "Cause I'll take you bent over the dresser if you'd rather. Doesn't bother me."

Clark looked up, a conflicted expression on his face and in a long sigh finally said, "I'm sorry, Bruce, I really-- I can't do this."

Malone stepped back, frowning. "What?"

"Last week you said we should stop meeting like this," Clark explained, running a nervous hand through his hair as he started pacing across the room. "And fine, so, I guess you changed your mind about that," he went on, clearly agitated, his hands flying up in the air with every few words. "Now I won't lie to you and say that I don't really want this, because I do... oh, I do. But not like this. I-- I can't. This might be just all pretend to you, but it's real to me, and I--"

"You ain't makin' a whole lot of sense," Malone cut in, looking utterly confused. "I hear what you're saying, but if there's a point to your rambling, you better hurry and make it."

Clark stopped his pacing and turned to face Malone, his shoulders sagging. Sighing, he said, "This isn't what I want, Bruce. Not like this."

"See, there you go again, not making any sense," Malone said, shaking his head. "And who's this Bruce fella, anyway?"

"Oh, come on!" Clark shot back, looking almost insulted. "Can you please be serious for a minute?"

"I _am_ being serious," Malone retorted, having lost nothing of his Jersey accent. "And I'm going to be dead serious when I ask you to leave, too."

"Dammit, Bruce, would you stop playing games and at least have the decency to address me as yourself?"

"Okay, enough with the wild accusations!" Malone said, exasperated. "I don't know how you got me confused with this Bruce guy, but clearly you're hung up on the fella." He stepped over to the door and swiftly threw it open. "So stop wasting my time and get the hell out of my room."

When it looked like Clark was frozen in place and refusing to leave, Malone pointed to the hallway in an abrupt gesture. "I said _leave_ ," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Go back to your boyfriend. See if I care!"

But Clark still didn't move. Instead, he squinted at Malone over the rims of his glasses. Malone exhaled sharply, annoyed, about to really lose his patience. However, before he had a chance to start barking orders, Clark tilted his head to the side, and seemingly dumbfounded stated, "You have a head injury."

Malone started at him open mouthed for a moment, then he crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "Your point?"

"You have a head injury," Clark repeated, as thought that was supposed to explain everything. "And you...actually _think_ that you're Matches Malone, don't you?"

"What'd you mean, _think_? I _am_ Matches Malone!" he shot back, kicking the door closed.

"No. You're Bruce Wayne," Clark said, in a tone that seemed much too gentle. "Matches... -" he shook his head slowly "- Matches is just a disguise you use sometimes when you need to go undercover to investigate the mob."

Malone chuckled. "You feed me a bunch of cockamamie stories and you expect me believe that _I'm_ the one who's not right in the head?"

"They're not stories," Clark argued in that annoyingly gentle tone that was really starting to anger Malone. "I know it sounds unbelievable, but you have to trust me. You've got some sort of amnesia."

For a moment, Malone considered the reporter's statement. Sure he seemed to be missing a few hours from the previous night, but that was all he was missing: a few hours. And there were dozens of possible explanations for that. Besides, he remembered his name, who he was, and what he was doing. He hadn't lost any of that.

"Nice try," Malone finally said. "I don't know what you're playing at exactly, but you're right, I don't believe any of that amnesia crap."

"Then come with me," Clark suggested, taking a step in Malone's direction. "Let's go up to the Watchtower. I'm sure J'onn can figure it out and make this right again."

"What?" Malone cried, outraged. "Follow you? Why? So you can mess with my mind, brainwash me into believing your lies? You really _are_ out of your mind!"

"You should at least see a doctor for tha--"

"No!"

With that, Malone threw the door open once more, then spun and grabbed Clark by the collar with both hands, intent on forcing him out of the room. Except that Clark didn't budge. At all.

"What the--?" Malone muttered under his breath as he tried again to throw Clark out, with the same results. Giving up, frustrated, he let go of Clark's jacket. "Hell!"

All of a sudden, Malone's vision became blurry. A dizzy spell, he guessed, as he closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, Clark was gone, and in his place stood...

Superman?

Malone blinked, confused.

"Come on," said Superman, gently but decisively, "We're getting your head checked out."

Before Malone realized what was happening, Superman had picked him up off the floor, and they'd somehow gone from being inside the hotel room to being outside the hotel altogether.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Malone spat, and he tried to free himself from Superman's hold, but obviously he wasn't anywhere near strong enough for the task.

"Someone who cares about you a great deal," Superman said simply. Then, "Take a deep breath. We're going to ascend very rapidly."

When he realized they were indeed going up, Malone did as he'd been told, taking a deep breath and then shutting his eyes tightly, hoping that by the time he opened them again, this whole crazy situation would prove to be some sort of nightmare.

Moments later, Malone was being set down on the ground again. He opened his eyes and looked around, but couldn't recognize the place where he was. They were in a large room that seemed taken right out of some science-fiction movie, its walls, ceiling and floor made of some kind of shiny metal alloy.

Someone walked into the room, a man he'd never seen before - his face was oddly deformed and his skin was the weirdest shade of...almost green that Malone had ever seen.

"Let me out of here," Malone spat immediately. "I know people," he added, menacingly. "And they know people and--"

And all of a sudden, Malone felt an incredible sense of fatigue weighing down on him. He tried to fight it, but his mind was too sluggish, and his eyes just wouldn't stay open.

His knees gave out from under him and Superman caught him just before he hit the floor.

=:=:=:=

_The Watchtower, Friday evening, 10:22 PM_

"So he's back to normal now, then?" Superman asked J'onn.

J'onn nodded. "He is. He's resting in his quarters. Or supposed to be resting, at any rate."

"I don't think he knows the meaning of the word..."

"Perhaps you ought to teach it to him?" J'onn replied, tilting his head to the side. "He mentioned that he wanted to see you."

"Talk about teaching an old dog some new tricks," Superman chuckled. "Thanks for all your help, J'onn," he added as he turned to leave the Watchtower's monitor womb.

"Of course," J'onn said, nodding once before turning his attention back to the array of monitors he'd been surveilling.

Minutes later, dressed in casual street clothes, Clark walked up to Bruce's quarters. He hesitated for a moment, apprehending the conversation that he knew would take place once he got inside. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

"It's open," came Bruce's voice from inside the room. "Just come in."

Clark walked in the room, closing the door quietly behind himself. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"More like my old self again," Bruce said. He pushed away the laptop that he'd been working on and go up from where he'd been sitting at the other end of the room.

"Good, I'm glad," Clark replied. He shoved his hands in his pockets and awkwardly asked, "But you also remember the period of time when you thought you were Matches?"

Bruce nodded. "I do. And look, I'm sorry, I yelled and..." He gestured vaguely in the empty air between them, looking almost nervous.

"It's okay, don't worry. You weren't exactly yourself," Clark argued, giving him an understanding look. "Let's just say nothing happened and go back to how things were before."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Bruce countered. "Look, I think we should talk..."

"You can save your breath," Clark replied in a sigh. "I know you're going to tell me again that we should stop meeting like that. So it's like I said, let's just pretend the other night never happened - not that anything actually happened anyway, but--"

"Okay, stop," Bruce interrupted. "Let's not pretend anything, all right? I'm sick of pretending."

"O-- Okay," Clark replied, frowning in confusion.

"I think we may have misunderstood one another," Bruce explained. "When I said we should stop meeting like that, I meant that we should stop putting on these elaborate little scenarios where we pretend to be other people in order to have sex. But you reacted like that was unacceptable a suggestion, so I figured we just weren't on the same page at all, and that was it."

"Wait, you didn't really think--" Clark stared at Bruce for a moment. "You didn't think this was all just a little bit of casual fun to me?"

Bruce shrugged. "Like I said, I think we may have misunderstood one another. You seemed to think the same of me, after all."

"Apparently..."

"So, could we..." Bruce started hesitantly, "Could we rewind a little bit, about a week or so? Have this conversation again."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Clark replied, shaking his head. "I didn't like the way that conversation went. I'd rather have one that doesn't start with you telling me we shouldn't see each other anymore."

Bruce's initial surprise turned into amusement. "I wasn't going to," he said with a small smile. "But I'm tired of playing games in order to be with you. That wasn't what I wanted. I know I'm not very good at expressing some things, but I..." He rubbed at his forehead with his fingers before going on. "I don't want casual. And I want something... _real_."

"I'd like that too," Clark said and he moved closer to Bruce, gently placing a hand on his chest. "I'd really like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah..." said Clark in a whisper, leaning in somewhat to seal the gap between them with a kiss that was hesitant and uncertain at first, but quickly grew in heat and intensity.

When they broke apart a little later, both out of breath, Bruce smiled and said, "I definitely like the taste of reality."

"Hey, the names you gave me the other night," Clark said, a sudden faraway look in his eyes. "Were those real?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the odd question. "Of course. Why?"

"I seem to remember something about a reward," Clark replied, a lopsided smile on his lips.

"Oh, I've gotten that already," Bruce said, shaking his head. At Clark's puzzled frown, he explained, "I have my memory back." Then leaning in for another kiss, he whispered, "And now I have you."

=> End.  



End file.
